01 - Defenders of Ulthuan

by Graham McNeill

  Startled gasps greeted this pronouncement, for none had considered that the dread sorcery of undeath might have played a part in today’s terror.

  Teclis stilled such fears. “Be at ease, my friends. It is not of necromancy that I speak, but perhaps Lord Éadaoin would elaborate on the tale of Caelir?”

  Eldain felt all heads turn towards him and looked up to see the sunken eyes of Teclis staring at him with a look of pity. His mouth felt dry and he knew he was expected to speak, but no words would form in his mind that were not those of his confession.

  “Lord Éadaoin,” said Teclis, seeing his hesitation. “If you please?”

  Eldain nodded and cleared his throat, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Yes, my lord, of course.”

  He looked around the room, picturing the scene as he and Caelir had boarded the ship that was to carry them to their destiny on Naggaroth.

  “We set sail from Lothern with a fair wind at our back,” said Eldain, and he went on to tell of how he and Caelir, together with a company of the finest Ellyrion Reavers, had sailed across the Great Ocean to Naggaroth to avenge the death of their father. He spoke eloquently of the chill that descended as they approached the blasted coast of the land of the druchii and the pall it cast over the company.

  Eldain’s voice grew stronger as he spoke of the evil, sulphurous river they had sailed along to get as close to the druchii city of Clar Karond as possible, whereupon they had continued on horseback. He spoke with pride as he told of how the skills of the Reavers had been tested to the utmost as they evaded patrols and fought the gloom of the soul that the druchii’s homeland pressed upon them.

  Eventually, they had reached the outskirts of Clar Karond and laid eyes upon the target of their raid, the shipyards where slaves toiled to construct the ships of the druchii fleet. No finer raiding force existed than the Ellyrion Reavers, and Eldain’s voice surged as he spoke of how he and his warriors had run riot through the shipyards, burning ships with enchanted arrows provided by Mitherion Silverfawn.

  Eldain vividly described how he and Caelir had toppled a mighty craft built onto the back of a great sea drake and he could feel the emotions of those around him swell with this tale of heroism and valour. So caught up was he in the telling that Eldain could almost convince himself that such had been how events had eventually played out, but his voice faltered as he described how the raiding force, having done as much damage as it could do without being overwhelmed, had ridden away.

  He hesitated as he reached the crux of his tale, and he licked his lips as he pondered his next words. “When Caelir and I rode through the gates of the shipyards, we were met by a hail of crossbow bolts. Caelir was hit and his horse was killed. He fell…”

  Eldain’s voice cracked as he pictured what happened next and he saw that his audience believed it to be anguish at the thought of his brother’s “death”.

  “He ran to me, but… another bolt hit him and he… he went down. I… couldn’t reach him. I tried, but the druchii were all around and I…”

  “You would have died trying to save him,” said Teclis.

  “Yes,” nodded Eldain, tears of guilt streaming down his cheeks. The fact that they were mistaken for tears of grief made them harder to bear, but he choked back his self-loathing and continued.

  “There was nothing I could do and, Isha help me, I rode away… I left him there. I thought he was dead, but…”

  “It would have been better for all of us if he had died that day,” said the mage in the ragged green robe beside Teclis. The Loremaster reached out and placed a withered hand on the mage’s arm, the sorrow etched on his gaunt face matching that of his companion.

  “Anurion the Green speaks a sad truth,” said Teclis, “for it is clear now that Caelir did not die that day, but was taken alive by the druchii. A fate none gathered here can imagine.”

  “I curse the day Caelir came to my household,” wept Anurion and Eldain felt the mage’s sorrow cut lines of fire across his soul. “My dear daughter would still be alive…”

  Eldain shuddered as he felt the echo of a departed soul, heard her screams and felt the agony of her final moments. He saw from the reactions of those around him that they too sensed her passing.

  The sadness of her death was like a poison in the air, though none turned away from it.

  No one spoke for many minutes until Rhianna said, “How did Caelir come to reach the Tower of Hoeth? Did he escape from the dungeons of Naggaroth? Is such a thing even possible?”

  Teclis shook his head. “No, none have escaped from such captivity.”

  “Then how?” said Rhianna, shaking her head.

  “Anurion tells me that his daughter found Caelir washed upon the beaches of Yvresse, bereft of his memory and muttering my name.”

  “How could such a thing happen?” whispered Eldain.

  “I do not know,” said Teclis, “but it seems clear that the druchii must have hurled Caelir into the ocean of the Shifting Isles, knowing the waters would bring a true son of Ulthuan home. Master Anurion’s daughter, Kyrielle, discovered him and nursed him in the home of her father. Caelir returned to health, and when Anurion’s magic could not unlock his memory, he was brought to me.”

  Mitherion leaned in close to Eldain and whispered, “You see? Auspicious. Two brothers, divided by loss reunited at almost the exact moment…”

  Eldain did not answer as Teclis continued. “When Caelir stood before me I looked into his mind, but I saw no evil in him. I have given thought as to why this should be so and I believe that the goodness of his soul blinded me to the darkness placed within him.”

  “Who could have placed such darkness within him?” demanded Anurion.

  “There is only one amongst the druchii I know of with the power to rob someone of their memory and so cunningly conceal such a deadly trap,” said Teclis.

  “The Hag Sorceress…” said Anurion, clutching at a delicate silver pendant at his breast.

  Teclis nodded. “Yes, Morathi.”

  At the mention of she who had once been Aenarion’s consort, a visible shudder went through the assembly, for her mastery of the black arts was the terror of those who stood against the druchii. No other being had opened the gates to the Chaos hells and emerged as powerful as she. Vile, unnatural blood rites kept her as youthful as the day she left the shores of Ulthuan over five thousand years ago, and even the strongest willed hero had been reduced to a brainless fool by her bewitching allure.

  “It is my belief that Caelir was taken by the Hag Sorceress,” said Teclis, “where his mind was broken by unnatural tortures.”

  “No,” spat Anurion. “I examined him thoroughly before I attempted to unlock his memories. I saw no evidence of torture.”

  “There are other forms of torture than those that are inflicted upon the body, Anurion. The Hag Sorceress has ways of reaching into the farthest depths of a mind to wring out its worst fears, its darkest desires and its secret lusts. There are ways to break a mind that leave no mark.”

  Eldain fought against fresh tears as he tried to imagine the torments Caelir must have endured at the hands of the druchii. Better that he had cut his throat in his sleep than allow him to suffer such pain.

  “Morathi is unmatched in her mastery of the darkest pleasures,” said Teclis. “There is not one amongst us who could resist her wiles, not even me. We should not hate Caelir, my friends, we must pity him and we must help him, for it is clear to me that he did not do this thing knowingly or willingly. He will be frightened and desperate for answers, but his ultimate destiny is beyond my powers to see.

  “We must find him and undo what has been done to him, for I fear that he has yet a part to play in events to come. I feel the touch of the druchii somewhere upon our shores and a Black Ark lurks on our southern coast. The destruction unleashed here is but the first stage in a grander scheme, my friends, one that aims to destroy us all.”

  “So how do we find Caelir?” asked Eldain. “He is my brother and if a
nyone is to hunt him it should be me.”

  “Indeed it should, Lord Éadaoin,” agreed Teclis. “As Master Silverfawn says, it is more than coincidence that you arrive here on the same day as your brother. Fate has delivered you to us and it is clear there is a bond between you and Caelir that goes beyond that of brotherhood. But you shall not hunt alone.”

  Teclis turned to Rhianna, his shadowed eyes narrowing as he spoke. “Amongst the confusion of Caelir’s mind, I saw one thing brighter than all others. I saw your face, Lady Rhianna. Clearer than any other thought in his head, though even he is not fully aware of it.”

  Rhianna held her head high as she said, “Caelir and I were once betrothed.”

  Teclis nodded, as though he had expected her answer. “Yes, and that is why you must accompany Eldain. Together you must find Caelir and save him.”

  “Caelir rides an Ellyrion steed,” pointed out Eldain. “He will leave no sign of his passing. He could be anywhere by now.”

  “How will we find him?” said Rhianna. “Can your magic locate him, my lord?”

  “No,” said Teclis. “The key to finding Caelir lies with you, Rhianna, daughter of Mitherion. I cannot probe the forbidden mysteries of a daughter of Ulthuan, but the priestess of the Mother Goddess can.

  “You must travel to the shrine of the Earth Mother within the Gaen Vale. She will tell you what you need to know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Armies

  No sunlight warmed the Finuval Plain, though it lay within the Inner Kingdoms and would normally be spared harsh winters and perpetually bathed in balmy summers. A shadow passed over Caelir’s soul as he rode from the entangling forests and beheld the plain where Prince Tyrion had led the desperate armies of the Asur to victory against the host of the Witch King.

  Outwardly, the plain resembled the flatlands of Ellyrion or the rest of Saphery, but there was a distinct chill in the air, the memory of lives lost reaching from the past and touching the present.

  Though he could have been little more than a babe in arms, Caelir still remembered the tales of this place, though, frustratingly, not the teller…

  Two hundred years ago, the Witch King had led an invasion that cut a bloody swathe through Avelorn and threatened to completely overrun Ulthuan. The Everqueen had been thought lost, though Prince Tyrion had rescued her from the clutches of assassins and kept her safe while the armies of the Phoenix King fought for the survival of the Asur.

  This had been the darkest hour of Ulthuan since the days of Aenarion, but Tyrion had returned with the Everqueen to fight the final battle against the druchii and their infernal allies on the Finuval Plain.

  The slaughter of that day still resonated across the bleak moor of Finuval, nature and history combining to create a melancholy mood that drove most right thinking people to seek other places to dwell. Civilisation had chosen not to take root here, save for wisps of smoke from the occasional remote village huddled in the twisting trails of sharply rising hills or upon the high cliffs of the coastline.

  The path he followed curled around rounded hills smoothed by eons of wind and water, while clouds raced across the barren hillsides, their shadows swathing vast areas of the plain in darkness before swiftly moving on. Caelir’s route narrowed as the ground dropped into the Finuval Plain, becoming a long, tight valley flanked by massive crags that loomed overhead like grim sentinels.

  He rode down through three squat peaks separated by rocky ravines. He splashed through water dancing over stones as it sought to find the quickest way down the mountains in impromptu waterfalls. A few hardy trees clung to the streambeds, under the cliffs or any other place even vaguely protected from the biting wind that blew off the plain.

  His mood soured in sympathy with the broken terrain and the long dead spirits of the battle fought here many years ago. He shivered in the darkness of the ravine, the long shadows draining his body and spirit of any warmth.

  At last the rocky shingle of the ravine gave way to earth beneath his horse’s hooves and the ground began to level out as he left the crags leading down to the plain behind.

  Before him, the Finuval Plain stretched out in an endless vista of broken moorland and withered heath. There would be no hiding in this place and all he could do would be to cross the ancient battlefield as quickly as he was able and hope any pursuers would be similarly discomfited by the melancholy that seeped from every square yard of this place.

  He rode onwards, the black steed making good time though he had not stopped to feed or water it for some time. The horse had welcomed him as a rider, as though they shared some kinship he was not aware of, and he was grateful for such a blessing.

  Though apparently deserted, it was soon clear to Caelir that others still travelled the Finuval Plain. He saw recent hoof prints and the long trails of what looked to be the wheel ruts of a caravan or wagon, though he had no idea as to who might choose to travel this way.

  The morning receded into the afternoon and as the day wore on, Caelir saw more and more relics of the great battle fought here. Broken speartips and snapped sword blades jutted from the ground, and here and there he caught sight of a splintered shield. He saw no bones, for those of his people would have been gathered up and those of the druchii would have been burned.

  He kept his thoughts focused on the journey ahead, letting his horse find its own path across the windswept plain, the ghosts and echoes of the battle leeching any thoughts of his own from his mind as surely as though he were drunk on dreamwine. He tried to remember the warrior he believed was his brother, but found himself becoming inexplicably angry every time he summoned his face.

  Each thought of anger was dispelled as soon as he thought of the golden haired elf maid who had accompanied him. He wished he could remember her, for she was a balm on his soul and he would often catch himself indulging in daydreams where they rode the mountains, her atop a steed with glittering silver flanks and he upon a grey mare…

  He shook off such dreams, knowing they could never come to pass, miserable and angry in equal measure.

  As night fell and a hunter’s moon rose above the mountains, he drew near a bare, rounded hillock in the midst of the battlefield. A collection of barrow mounds had been raised around the circumference of its base and each was topped by a tapering menhir carved with spiralling, runic patterns.

  Elven hands had clearly fashioned these mausoleums in ages past, for there was a grace and symmetry to each that was beyond the skill of the lesser races. Darkness framed by marble pilasters and lintels led inside, but Caelir felt no compulsion to venture within, for the echoes of the dead were strong here and they jealously guarded their final resting places.

  A low mist hugged the ground and Caelir wrapped his cloak tighter about himself as he contemplated riding through the night. Though his horse had valiantly borne him from the White Tower without complaint, he knew that it would need rest soon or else he risked riding it into the ground.

  He looked for somewhere to rest, but could see nowhere that would offer more shelter from the wind than the spaces between the barrows at the base of the hillock. As much as he did not relish the prospect of spending the night in such close proximity to these monuments of battle, he felt no threat from the dead gathered here, for they were defenders of Ulthuan and they watched over this land.

  Caelir made a quick circuit of the round hillock before dismounting and hobbling his horse next to a mausoleum with a graceful arched entrance. A cold wind gusted from within like a sigh and he bowed respectfully before finding a patch of dry, flat earth upon which to lay his saddle blanket.

  He wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and settled down to sleep.

  When he awoke, he saw stars above him, but not the stars beneath which he had fallen asleep. The mist that had been gathering when he had stopped for the night was thicker than before, but only now did he see that it was no ordinary mist.

  Elves moved within it, ghostly warriors in armour of times past limned in silver light who m
arched around the hillock in grim procession. He rose to his feet, amazed at how refreshed he felt and turned to look up at the hillock.

  And gasped in horror as he saw his still sleeping form curled on the ground…

  Caelir lifted his hands to his face as he saw the same spectral light that outlined the ghosts emanating from his own flesh. In panic he reached down to his body, but his fingertips simply vanished within as though he were no more than an apparition.

  “Am I dead?” he asked himself, but as he saw the rhythmic rise and fall of his sleeping form, he slowly came to the realisation that he was still alive.

  Caelir watched the marching warriors for a time, their ranks swelling as an endless tide of sentinels emerged from the arched entrances to the barrows. He wondered what purpose this moonlit vigil served and glanced up at the top of the hillock, where he saw a shadow where no shadow ought to be, a sliver of darkness against the moon.

  A figure stood there, etched against the night as though an evil memory had been caught in time and now raged at its captivity at the hands of these ghostly warriors.

  Though no more solid than smoke and memory, the shape wore the suggestion of armour, as though this were a revenant of the battle fought here long ago. It raged biliously, and Caelir took a step towards the shape, something in its armoured darkness familiar and repulsive.

  It towered above the battlefield, green orbs of malice staring out from behind the cruel curves of its mighty, horned helmet and Caelir felt his legs go weak as he realised that he looked upon the black imprint on time left by the Witch King of Naggaroth.

  His pulse quickened, though how such a thing could be possible in ghost form he didn’t know. This figure of evil had lurked in the darkest nightmares of the Asur for thousands of years, yet few had laid eyes upon him and lived to tell of it.

  With sudden, awful certainty, Caelir knew that he could count himself amongst their number. Though he had no memory of the event, he knew he had stared into those eyes and had felt his soul shrivel beneath their awful gaze.